Fear Is the Thing With Feathers
by Pikapegasus
Summary: "You know, if you could wake up soon, that'd be great. Because I really don't know what they did to you, Tash. Are you dying? Please tell me you're not dying. At least, could you wait until after our anniversary? I mean, I don't want you to die, but, naturally, you will at some point. Can it just be after next week?" (Clintasha Week 2016, Day 2: Mood/Emotions) (Oneshot.)


**Clintasha Week Day 2:** Mood/Emotions

 _Fear_

* * *

Clint is very familiar with fear.

It's acted as the driving force of his actions many times throughout his life, holding his hand through his less-than-pleasant childhood and pushing his hand to take Coulson's when the only other option was a shitty life. After joining Coulson in the legal safety blanket of S.H.I.E.L.D., however, fear had departed from Clint for the most part, only returning occasionally in his dreams to grip his heart with its icy claws until Clint woke up screaming.

As it's been years now, and there are more prominent emotions pulling at Clint on a daily basis. He returns Coulson's greeting smile every morning. He picks out the food he enjoys the most. He practices shooting. Hell, he's even made a _friend_ , who's become something like his _soul mate_.

But he can't see said soul mate at the present moment; he can only hear her faint breathing, feel the cold tips of her fingers brush against his, smell the blood he knows is painted across her features, and taste the blood that's on his. He strains his neck trying to turn his head around to see her, restrained in a chair behind him.

"Hey, Nat," he says, his voice struggling with the effort he's putting into twisting himself around, "would you say this is better or worse than the Barcelona mission?"

She doesn't respond.

At her lack of response, fear tries to rein Clint back into its cage, force him into thinking and seeing things he'd rather not. But Clint stands strong against it. Natasha is still breathing, after all. If she weren't, _that_ would be the time to panic. Instead, she's just unconscious - it's natural after being whacked in the head like she probably had been, anyway.

"This wasn't my fault. We had bad intel. So don't tell me I fucked this up when you wake up," Clint grumbles, settling back in his chair with his face pointed forward once again. There isn't much for him to see; it's just a dark, gray room. Their only source of light is the exposed, weak light bulb hanging from the ceiling above them. Clint scoffs. "They really need to touch this place up. Don'tcha think, Tash? Could use some more colors, I think. How's purple sound? I think it sounds great."

Once more, Natasha doesn't respond, but Clint was expecting that. He smiles to himself, his busted lip trembling in protest. "Everyone always talks about how lazy I am, but they don't realize _you're_ the lazy one between the two of us. You'd sleep the day away if you could. You know what? Next time I have to drag you out of bed back at base, I'm telling Coulson on you. That'll show him next time he lectures _me_ for sleeping in."

The more Clint talks, the more anxious he feels. His plan to combat fear isn't working out very well. In all honesty, he has _no_ idea what they'd done to Natasha before hauling her unconscious body back in here (and he hadn't been able to _see_ her to gauge how injured she is, either), so she _could_ be dying, for all he knows.

"You're not hurt too bad, right, Tasha?" He tries twisting his head around again. "I can't see you, so I can't tell. You're going to be okay, right?"

(His mind recalls Natasha's struggle against the guards when they'd started dragging her away from him. She'd really thrown all of her training out the window - but, from what the mumbled Russian of the guards had sounded like, it appeared it was an "it's either you or him" type deal. Clint really needs to tell Natasha that she can't give herself up for him like this.)

"Hey, our anniversary is coming up soon," Clint mumbles. "The anniversary of our first meeting. It's been three years. Wow. Time goes by so quickly."

(But Clint would be hypocritical if he tells Natasha not to sacrifice herself for him; after all, Clint would do the same for her.)

"I actually got you a present. It's at home," Clint continues. "I still can't believe we have that. A _home_. We even have fucking _pets._ God, we're so disgustingly domestic. Although, I got Lucky first. Your cat's just a freeloader. And hates me. But I'm sure you're _thrilled_ about that, aren't you?"

Fear threatens to steal Clint's breath. He takes a deep one just to prolong it. "You know, if you could wake up soon, that'd be great. Because I _really_ don't know what they did to you, Tash. Are you dying? Please tell me you're not dying. At least, could you wait until _after_ our anniversary? I mean, I don't _want_ you to die, but, naturally, you will at some point. Can it just be after next week? So I can give you my cheesy present?"

...Is it just him, or has Natasha's breathing slowed down?

"Hey, hey, hey, come on, Nat." Clint stretches his fingers as long as they can go, trying to jostle her hands (they're really cold…). "I look like an idiot, talking to myself like this. Say something, _do_ something. Make fun of me, blame me, just _say something._ "

He inhales slowly, trying to defeat the sudden tremble that has taken over his body. "Look, I'll tell you what I got you, alright? It's a necklace. A necklace with a little arrow charm. See what I meant about cheesy? Think of it like a friendship necklace. Or a boyfriend necklace. Whatever. Just hang in there so I can give it to you and you can laugh in my face about it, alright? Coulson should be here any minute now."

(He really has no idea when or if Coulson is coming.)

"Don't make me cry in front of the bad guys, Natasha, I _swear to God_." Clint swears under his breath. "You're still breathing, right? You know how my hearing gets. Breathe a little louder for me, please."

He waits a few moments. A sense of fleeting panic fills him. "Okay, I think I'm going into an anxiety attack now. If I start crying, don't laugh at me. Actually, laugh at me, because that'll mean you're okay."

Footsteps outside the closed door leading to their prison room startle Clint, but nobody walks in.

"If you start crying, I'll start crying."

"Oh, so now you're gonna pull the _empathy_ card on me? You're such a saint," Clint scoffs, but then realizes who he's talking to. He twists his neck enough to see her disheveled red curls, his fingers twitching impossibly closer to hers. "Natasha!"

She coughs a little, but she manages to raise her head from her shoulder and turn a little to at least meet his eyes. "I'm okay."

"Thank _God_ ," Clint sighs. "I was-"

"Scared. I know. I heard some of the things you said."

"Well, to be fair, I can barely hear you breathe, and your hands are _freezing._ "

"Don't worry. There's still some blood circulating through there." Natasha smiles a little, despite the blood dripping down her cheek from a gash on her head. "How are you feeling?"

It's a cliche answer, but Clint can't stop himself. "Better, now that you're here. Or, well, now that you're awake, I guess."

Natasha raises an eyebrow. "Okay. But I'm still giving you a full examination when we get out of here."

"I expect nothing less."

"By the way, I scoped things out while they took me away," Natasha said. "There doesn't seem to be any cameras or bugs in here. Your little emotional monologue is safe."

"Oh, thank God."

"Yeah. So it's safe for me to say that I love you." Her smile widens. "I love you, Clint."

The fear drains from Clint as Natasha continues to look at him, her eyes as vibrant as ever.

She'll be okay.

He'll be okay.

 _They'll_ be okay.

"I love you, too, Natasha."


End file.
